


A Touch of Winter

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are different kinds of coldness. (Iceman/Gambit, post-Antarctica.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Winter

He thought he knew all about the cold. Thought Antarctica taught him everything he needs to know; but it is only back at the mansion that he learns the final lesson: there are different kinds of coldness. 

There's the one that seeps through every fibre of his body, stinging like a thousand little cuts until it makes him numb all over. This one, he got used to in his exile. But now, back home, the coldness that awaits him wears a different face. It's in the way Rogue can't look him in the eye. In the way Logan's fingers seem to twitch whenever he stands close to his erstwhile friend. In the seething hatred in Warren's gaze. It makes him freeze from the inside – much like in Antarctica, only that the familiar, comforting numbness doesn't come; and not even the warmth from the fire-place at the boat-house reaches him. 

It makes him long to be back in Antarctica, where the cold was something real and physical, which he knew how to deal with. 

Even when he was thousands of miles away, he was closer to his fellow team members than he is now. He wishes their anger was on the surface at least, not smouldering quietly under layers of ice. The strength to provoke them deliberately until they finally lash out at him, accusations and fists flying, is more than he can muster, though. It seems that everyone is holding back. 

Of course, that's only the calm before the storm.

It doesn't surprise him that Warren is the first to break. They are in the Danger Room, fighting, side by side – at least physically. Remy almost appreciates the irony of this. But then a casual remark he makes about the other mutant's wings sets Warren off; and before he knows it, Remy is doubling over from the first Warren has buried in his stomach. 

When the pain is fading away, he starts to laugh. "Dat's de first 'onest reaction Remy got from any o' you since he came back. You t'ink you can take Gambit, hein? Keep it comin', flyboy." He is still laughing when the force of a wing hitting him sends him staggering backwards. 

He doesn't fight back. There is only one person in the mansion who hates him more than Warren does, and that's Remy himself.

And then suddenly, Bobby is between them, a solid block of ice protecting him from Warren's wrath. 

"Will you stop that," Bobby yells, the mature one for once – and Remy might have made a joke about it, trying to rile up Drake as well, if it hadn't been for the Iceman's hand on his chest, casually placed there in order to restrain him. There are layers of clothing between Remy's body and Bobby's fingers, but the coldness seeps right through them, biting Remy's skin in a familiar way. He can't contain a shiver. Bobby must have felt it, because he turns his head to look at Remy, eyes narrowed and a frown on his face, and drops his hand as if he touched fire. 

"Sorry." His skin changes in an instant, smooth, tanned flesh replacing the hard ice. "I forgot…" He trails off, looking suddenly uncomfortable and self-conscious.

Remy can still feel the cool weight of Bobby's hand against his chest, even when it's long gone. He remembers the barren Antarctic nights, and the way the cold wrapped around him like a sheet, painful and comforting at once. Hurting him beyond anything he has ever experienced and at the same time luring him with the promise of everlasting numbness.

"No need t' apologize, mon ami. No 'arm done." 

He holds Bobby's gaze calmly. The frown on the other man's face deepens. For a second, it seems as if he's going to say something; but the moment is interrupted by Warren, who obviously hasn't calmed down through Drake's interference.

His wings fluttering indignantly, he turns their attention back on him. His face is a grimace of rage. "You let him back into this house, accept him as if what he's done can ever be forgiven. You speak to him as if he's one of us." His head snaps up to look at Gambit. "But he's not. He's a traitor, and that's all he'll ever be. No amount of apologies or explanations or grovelling will ever change that."

The words are more painful than his fists, and they sting infinitely more than the Iceman's touch. 

Remy holds Warren's gaze, but only for a second before he lowers his eyes. He quietly nods. He would be the last to deny Warren the right to hate him. "If you say so, Gambit won' argue wit' you."

He slinks out, leaving Warren to his righteous anger. Bobby calls him back, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even turn around. He knows he can't stay here – not in the Danger Room, not in the mansion, not with the X Men; but he doesn't have the strength to leave it all behind. This is the only home he's known for years; and even when it's become colder than the eternal ice in Antarctica, he has nowhere else left to go. 

That's why Bobby finds him on the roof, smoking one cigarette after another while his free hand is absent-mindedly playing with a card. Ace of clubs. If he screws his eyes, it looks a bit like ice crystals on the card. 

He doesn't acknowledge Bobby's presence until the younger man speaks. "Thought you'd be here. This is where every one of us comes when there's something wrong, isn't it? We should start to call this angst central." 

The quip falls on deaf ears. 

"An' who'd dat be?" Gambit asks instead, still not looking up at Bobby. He doesn't need to look at him to know he doesn't understand the question. The confusion is plainly evident in his voice. 

"What do you mean?"

"You said, 'ev'ry one o' us', non? Who'd you mean den?"

Bobby shrugs. "The X Men, of course. What're you on about?"

"Ah, mon ami, mais Gambit n'est pas much o' an X Man dese days, is he?"

"Remy –" Bobby begins; and Remy can't help noticing that his name sounds like a sigh from Bobby's lips. "Look, Warren… he's angry. You know how he is. He says these things to hurt you."

"Dat doesn't make dem less true." 

Bobby doesn't reply. 

Remy shivers, despite the warm summer breeze that ruffles his hair. It doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right anymore, except… except the brief moment down in the Danger Room when he felt the chill of Bobby's touch against his skin.

"Touch me," he asks suddenly, surprising himself more than Bobby maybe, because Bobby looks unfazed and just reaches out to let his fingertips trail softly down Remy's cheek. Skin on skin. Too warm. Too much. Not enough. 

Remy recoils, as if burnt. 

"No. Not like dat."

There's that frown again. It makes Bobby look older, Remy realizes, more mature than he ever remembered him to be. But then, Remy's been gone a long time. Things have changed. It shouldn't surprise him that Drake, too, is not the carefree sunny-boy he used to be. 

For a long, awkward moment they just stand there. 

"You need help!" Bobby finally says, and he sounds as if he's desperate and in over his head. As if he knows that when Rogue abandoned Remy in Antarctica, a piece of him stayed there for good, no matter where he went afterwards. 

Remy smiles in what he hopes is a charming way, even when it's probably only a little feral and a bit sad. "Den 'elp Remy." 

He would use his charm powers, but he doesn't have them fully under control yet – like all his powers, really – and he seems to do alright without them. "This is insane," Bobby mutters but even as he says it, his skin starts to glaze over.

The first touch of the Iceman's fingers on Remy's skin feels like home. Feels like the light draught that precedes a blizzard, biting like tiny needles. Not quite pleasure, and not yet pain – somewhere in-between; and Remy doesn't want it to stop, wants more, wants everything, wants to drown in the cold until he stops to feel and stops to hurt and just sinks into nothingness.

Before he can stop himself, Remy surges forward and closes the distance between them, pressing his lips against Bobby's. 

It's nothing like he's ever known. The icy pressure of Bobby's mouth against his is overwhelming, colder than kissing an icicle, and yet burning like fire. Remy steps closer and deepens the kiss, relishing the sudden weight of a pair of frozen hands on his chest even when he knows that Bobby wants to push him away. He doesn't at once, though, letting Remy kiss him for a moment before he pulls back. When he finally does, Remy doesn't stop him, still too shaken and too numb from the coldness.

Bobby steps back and unfreezes in an instant, eyeing Remy warily. "That's not fair, LeBeau. Don't use me to punish yourself."

He doesn't understand; but then, Remy hadn't expected him to. It's not about punishment. It's about comfort. At least, that's what he tells himself. But he's always been an expert on manipulating people, even himself. 

Remy shrugs. "D'accord," he says, and he's gone. It's a temporary retreat. He will be back for more; and Bobby will let him.

Fin.


End file.
